Say It Ain't So: My Life Has Become a Vacation Movie

My buddy, Joe Jones, once told me a man should be able to throw everything he owns into a duffle bag and hit the road at a moment’s notice.

I wish I could say it ain’t so, Joe, but those days are long gone for me.

A trip to see my family for Thanksgiving turned into one of those “Vacation” movies with Chevy Chase where everything that could go wrong did.

Let’s start with packing. Before Sydney, traveling was fairly easy. I pack my bag. Brooke packs here three. I pack some food for the dogs, put their beds in the back of the SUV and off we go. The dogs are in the back, the luggage in the back seat, Brooke and I captaining the ship up front.

After Sydney, life gets a little more difficult. Now, I pack a bag. Brooke packs ONE bag. Then she packs THREE bags for Sydney. Then she packs a breast pump. Then I pack a Pack and Play. Then I pack a stroller. Then I pack her bathtub. Then I pack food for the dogs. Then I pack the dogs’ beds. Then we pack Sydney herself.

What does the car look like now? Well, the dogs are still kings. They are lying in the back by themselves. Sydney is in her car seat. Brook is now in the backseat with her. We stuff a couple of Sydney’s smaller bags on the floor of the back seat. This leaves the passenger’s seat for our bags, Sydney’s stroller, Sydney’s tub, Sydney’s other bag, the Pack and Play and the bathtub. When it is all said and done, I can’t see the side view mirror over there and we have to rearrange everything just to be able to pull out of the driveway.

We hit the road by 2 p.m. Wednesday. I know this is the biggest travel day of the year, but I figure we are leaving early enough to make the 3 ½-hour trip in 4 hours. I am allotting a half hour for bad traffic in Columbus.

The first hour is uneventful. But as we approach Columbus, I can see the cars lined up, bumper to bumper, like they’re waiting for the start of the Indianapolis 500. Interstate 71 has become a parking lot.

Now, those who know me know I am not a patient person. If we go to a restaurant on a Friday night and there is a wait, chances are I am moving on. I absolutely won’t wait more than 30 minutes. It is not just that I hate to wait, it actually makes me angry. I will start to notice open tables and wonder why the restaurant has not hired or scheduled enough workers to open up the WHOLE restaurant. After all, that is there business, right? Friday night crowd catch you by surprise? Were you expecting around the same numbers you have on Wednesday mornings?

Talk about letting money go to waste. Can you imagine the Bengals or Reds telling fans they can’t come in because those 20,000 seats over there are being left open?

But I digress.

So, we are sitting in traffic for about 30 minutes before I proclaim that every Wednesday before Thanksgiving for the rest of my life will be a vacation day for me. I will NOT travel on this day again.

I get the idea to call one of my Columbus buddies to see what my options are on getting through Columbus on a route other than 71. He refers me to 315 and that looks like it is moving fairly well, so I hop on. And for about five minutes, things are going smoothly. Then I hit another parking lot. Have you ever been caught in traffic after a concert? Where you crawl inch by inch toward the exit for about a half hour? That was my situation.

To cut the suspense, we were in bumper-to-bumper traffic for about two hours. We then were in slow-moving traffic for another hour. But that is not the interesting part of the story. Remember, I am traveling with a BABY.

Babies mostly sleep when they are traveling. But when a 3 ½-hour trip turns into a 6-hour trip, babies wake up. And they get antsy. And they get hungry. And they have to go to the bathroom. If all of this happens while you are angry about sitting in traffic and your two dogs are going crazy because they are cooped up in a small space….well, things can get a little tense.

Here, in no particular order, are the things that happened during our two hours of moving about 10 miles.

·        Brooke realized we were going to be in the car much longer than she had planned. She’s a breastfeeder. I don’t know the exact science behind it, but apparently you have to either feed or pump at certain times or you start leaking like the plumbing in a Section 8 rental property. She decides she needs to pump, because she doesn’t want to wake Sydney, and Sydney must remain in her car seat for safety’s sake. The problem is, we are sitting nearly still in traffic. It is bad enough she has to pump in a car, but nosy truck drivers can get a good show as they zoom by at 3 miles per hour.

·        Sydney woke up and screamed for food. Brooke gives her a bottle. She doesn’t want to drink a bottle. Sydney has a serious case of nipple confusion right now. She can go from meal to meal and change her preference, sometimes wanting the bottle, sometimes wanting the breast. This is particularly a problem when her dad is doing the feeding and she doesn’t want the bottle. Anyway, Brooke finally gets her to eat after much fussiness. Miss Crankypants returns.

·        Sydney spit up half her food. Now, this is not unexpected from Sydney, but it necessitated a outfit change, which was not easy to do in the back seat, but somehow Brooke managed.

·        The car filled with a horrible odor. I immediately accuse Brooke. She immediately accuses me. After quick denials, we look at the dogs. They are always likely culprits, but what if it wasn’t them? We have to check Sydney. A couple seconds later, I look in my rearview mirror to see a look of horror on my wife’s face. Then she starts gagging. It is clear. Sydney has experienced an episode of explosive ass disorder while we are stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic with nowhere to turn off.

The highlight of the trip was Brooke changing Sydney while sitting in a back seat with a car seat, breast pump and several other bags stuffed back there.  It was as tight as my belt after a Sunday meal. She discovered that Sydney’s explosion had exceeded her diaper line and was actually half way up her back. Nice. Another outfit. At about this time, I say, “Honey, I wish I wasn’t driving so I could help you back there.” She shoots me a dirty look. By the time she is done, Sydney has poop in her hair and on her clothes, and Brooke has it all over her hands. And there is no bathroom in sight!

· Right about this time, the dogs decide they are too antsy and they need to get up and prance around the back of the SUV like reindeer on Christmas Eve. This was a great capper to Brooke’s diaper episode and she let loose her anger on everyone within earshot, including her innocent, just-trying-to-get-his-family-home-safely, nice-guy husband.

Suddenly, my impatience with the traffic was the least of my concerns.

About a half hour later, we had crawled close enough to an exit that I could take the whole family to the bathroom. Brooke cleaned up herself and Sydney, the dogs found a nice patch of grass in the parking lot of an office complex and I breathed a sigh of relief. We still had another hour in traffic and another hour and half of driving after that, but I had survived the worst of it. Even Chevy Chase never had it this bad.

I passed the next couple hours thinking about my buddy Joe Jones. I think he has a wife and two daughters now. I imagine he traded his duffle bag in for a Pack and Play a long time ago.